The Butterfly Effect:

 

When I was a child, I was a social butterfly. I let people in, even when they gave me every reason to push them out. Again and again, time after time. I made friendships with those who had fun playing with the devil, or at least acting like some version of one. I always thought, it must be nice to be the person who is loved and cared for, and still gets away with stepping on others with sharp heels, dirty feet. Staring with an eye that appears real, but in reality is nothing but glass. I know what it feels like to be the one under the weight, seeing and believing, falling for it every time. 

But, with the strength I have, I accept these situations. These tumors of human beings, like the holes in your socks that keep getting bigger. I put them on my back, and I roll with them, I walk with them. Until occasionally they start to slip off, and my back gets strained and I do not have the time, the patience, or the willpower to pick up the pieces and re-strengthen what has been strained. 

So in this way, I have lost some of my strength. In fact, over time I have become less of a character who fits the role of a “social butterfly.” I now associate more with the creature itself. You see, a butterfly in the wild flies, not to capture and hold the attention of others, but to escape. To seek new routes, to look out on a new environment, to regain control. A butterfly appreciates beauty in nature and collaborates with those around her, but also knows how to stick to herself. She humors those she fears and approaches with caution, lingering no longer than she desires before she grows uncomfortable. 

I am a lot like this butterfly. I find beauty in my surroundings and absorb and appreciate the little details. The hot fries at work give me comfort and warmth after a day of interaction that drains the social battery like a time bomb. The plants on my windowsill that thrive thanks to my careful supervision and support. The walk-in closet of my childhood bedroom, where friendships formed and my imagination could work on full volume. 

And just like for a butterfly, my environment can seem scary.  Especially when that environment is crowds, constant stimulation, of couples walking down streets, kids on their longboards, or better yet the electric ones. And yet, that environment is adaptable. It can be interchanged. It can possess as much normalcy as I can recognize, in M&M’s and trashy magazines, and fruit bowls and muddy sneakers by the front door. It can be full of the things that I love most, dahlia flowers, sparkly pink hair clips, thrifted clothes, waking up in the morning in the arms of someone I love. Hell, I can read Harry Potter from back to front until the pages start falling out (again). An environment full of unexpected rainbows, so the butterflies always come back.

I’ve learned to love and cherish interaction. With coworkers that help keep the days short, parents that give life lessons to hold onto, roommates that keep things interesting. But, I also know how to run away.  From confrontation, from failure, from self doubt, from the recognition of the very things that I am running away from. I’d like to believe that I possess the beauty of a butterfly, as well. But with that beauty, comes fragility. Fragility that can be forgotten, but more often is remembered.